I sighed. “You’re not an influencer, Rhys.”

“Excuse me, I have nine hundred and seventy-four followers.” He paused. “Well, nine hundred and seventy-two, really, because one of them is my auntie Margery and another is my auntie Margery’s python.”

I wasn’t going to ask. I wasn’t going to ask. I wasn’t going to ask. “Why does your auntie Margery have a python, and why does it follow you on YouTube?”

“She’s got a python,” said Rhys, and I instantly regretted my lack of self-control, “because she’s allergic to cats and because she got used to snakes when she was an exotic dancer. And he follows me on You Tube because Auntie Margery thinks he finds my voice calming.”

There was so much to process there. “Your aunt was an exotic dancer?”

“Oh yes. Very tasteful, minimal nudity.”

I wasn’t going to ask. I wasn’t going to ask. I wasn’t going to ask. “What does minimal nudity look like?”

“Honestly, Luc.” Rhys gave me a look of admonition. “Asking a man what his aunt looks like naked is low even for you.”

“I wasn’t—” But there was no point protesting. I’d only dig myself into a deeper hole.

“Actually”—JoJo finally managed to get a word in—“I was here to talk to Luc. About something a bit personal.”

Alex gave me an apologetic look. “Ah, as it turns out, he hasn’t changed his mind at all. Well played, old boy.”

“This was never a game.” I made my best welcome-to-CRAPP gesture at JoJo and led him through to the relative privacy of my office.

To be honest, I wasn’t thrilled to be leading him through to the relative privacy of my office, but having already made a scene at his wedding, I didn’t want to compound it by making a scene at my place of work.

Sitting down at my desk, I tried to psych myself up to apologise. Which was going to be difficult because, in a lot of ways, I wasn’t fucking sorry. I’d done more than my fair share of reconciliation bullshit by showing up in the first place. Expecting me to be “yes, we’re bros now” was a bridge too far. And not like a little tiny bridge over a brook on a nice walk in the countryside. Like a giant, fucking steel-suspension bridge over a river of fuck right off.

Come on, Luc. Be the bigger man.

“I’m sorry if I spoiled your big day,” I tried. I know all the internet rules say you’re not supposed to begin an apology with I’m sorry if, but it was what he was getting.